The wall clock ticked a hesitant rhythm, its hands wavering as though uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Ernesto sat in his favorite armchair, a worn-out throne that once symbolized his dominion over the trivialities of daily life. Around him, the living room resembled a strange garden: the furniture twisted like gnarled trees, photographs hung like ripe fruit ready to fall, and the curtains swayed like weary leaves in an endless autumn.

  At his feet, a frayed rug whispered stories—fragmented and confused. Ernesto narrowed his eyes, straining to untangle the threads, but the memories were nothing more than faded petals slipping through his fingers.

  The garden had always been his refuge. For years, Ernesto had meticulously tended to every corner of his memory, as though it were an inner landscape where the events of his life grew in the form of flowers, trees, and wild grasses. He could wander through it and find his daughter's laughter in a rosebush, the scent of his wife's coffee in a jasmine, or the days of his youth in a sturdy oak tree standing tall at the center. But one day, something changed.

  As he tried to recall the name of a flower, he realized the trace of its fragrance was lost in an unsettling silence. He paused, gazing toward a corner of the garden where a vibrant sunflower once stood. In its place, there remained only a brittle, withered stalk, as though the sun had ceased to shine upon it.

  "What was here?" he wondered, but the wind offered no answer.

  Over time, the wind began to blow stronger through his garden. At first, it was a gentle breeze, erasing the names of flowers.

  "Was it a daffodil or a lily?" he asked himself. But soon he realized it no longer mattered, for the next day he wouldn't even remember there had been a flower there at all.

  Then the wind began to tear entire shrubs from the ground. Suddenly, Ernesto wandered through empty clearings where once a dense forest of memories thrived. He tried planting new seeds, memorizing the faces of his family, the important dates, but the soil refused to hold the roots.

  "Dad, do you remember that summer at the beach?" his daughter asked one day. Ernesto could only offer her a vacant stare. The sea was no longer in his garden, only a dry wasteland where waves had once danced with foam.

  Forgetfulness did not arrive all at once, but like a plague. First, small weeds crept up the trunks of his memory trees. Then, poisonous mushrooms sprouted where flowers once bloomed. Ernesto tried to pull them out, but their roots clung too deeply to the soil. Soon, the plague spread like an invading army, leaving behind a landscape increasingly unrecognizable.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "What is this?" he murmured upon waking, gazing at the walls of his own home. The pictures seemed like windows to a world no longer his own, and the people within them were strangers. Sometimes, he saw his wife and couldn't tell whether it was a portrait or a mirror.

  "Who am I?" he whispered, as the wind carried away his voice.

  The Darkened Beacons... The Crack of the Invasion.

  One day, Ernesto found himself lost at the heart of his garden. Everything was shrouded in mist. The familiar paths, once as known to him as the lines of his hands, had vanished. He realized that the landmarks guiding his life—the faces, the voices, the familiar scents—were flickering out like beacons in a stormy night.

  "Where am I?" he asked, but the mist did not respond. He walked and walked, searching for something recognizable, but found only shadows of things he had once loved. A swing creaked without a child to push it. A dry streambed lay silent, where once the songs of childhood flowed.

  Eventually, he stumbled upon a shattered mirror. In its fragments, he saw flashes of what had been: a young man running through the rain, a father cradling a baby, an old man smiling at a table surrounded by family. But the fragments lay scattered, impossible to piece together.

  One day, as Ernesto wandered through his garden, he encountered a strange figure. Tall and cloaked in darkness, it seemed to absorb the very light around it. The figure said nothing, yet its presence was overwhelming. Ernesto felt as though he knew it, though he couldn't recall from where.

  "Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling.

  "I am the Gardener," the figure replied, its voice rustling like dry leaves. "I have come to help you."

  "Help me? To do what?"

  "To let go."

  The Gardener began to pluck the few remaining flowers from the garden, one by one. Ernesto tried to stop him, but his hands passed through the figure's cloak like smoke. He wanted to scream, but no words came. In the end, he could only watch as his garden emptied, becoming a barren land.

  When all was done, only one flower remained at the center of the garden: a small but vibrant rosebush. The Gardener approached it, but this time, Ernesto stopped him.

  "Please, not that one," he pleaded. "It’s... it’s important."

  The Gardener gazed at him silently for a long moment. Finally, he lowered his hand.

  "That flower is not mine," he said, and disappeared into the mist.

  Ernesto approached the rosebush, and though he couldn't recall what it represented, he knew it was special. He watered it with tears he didn't know he still possessed and stroked its trembling petals with shaking hands.

  Days passed, and Ernesto spent his time beside his only memory. Though the garden was empty, he did not feel alone as long as the rose remained. Yet he knew it would not last forever. One day, the wind would blow hard enough to take it too.

  And when that day finally came, Ernesto did not fight it. He sat beside the rosebush and let the wind embrace him. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he felt at peace.

  In the breeze, he heard a whisper: his daughter’s laughter, the aroma of his wife’s coffee, the crashing waves of the sea. He knew that even as the garden vanished, it would always be a part of him.

  And so, Ernesto faded away, carrying with him the last petal of his memory, as the Garden of Withered Remembrances bloomed anew—now in a place he could no longer name.

  It was a beautiful dusk.